


got it right such a long time ago

by imsosorry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-1d, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsosorry/pseuds/imsosorry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are a lot of people Harry might expect to find on his doorstep at three o’clock in the afternoon these days. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>It could be the delivery man, come to drop off the pair of boots Harry impulsively ordered online last week. It could be one of his neighbors, dropping by to complain about how a party he’d thrown weeks ago had clogged up the street. It could also be any number of his friends in L.A., who stop by unannounced most days to mooch off Harry’s food or whisk him away to try some new yogurt shop. </i></p><p> </p><p>  <br/><i>As a rule, it definitely cannot be Louis Tomlinson, although Harry’s blinked at least three times now, and it’s still Louis standing there, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a duffel bag at his feet. </i></p><p> </p><p>(non-au. Four months into One Direction's hiatus, Louis comes to stay with Harry after a bad breakup.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	got it right such a long time ago

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucdarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/gifts).



> this a pinch hit for lucdarling!
> 
> this definitely veers off your prompt a little more than i intended, probably because i rewrote it approximately 100 times, but i think the general idea is the same, and i hope you like it!
> 
> title from "harrison ford" by someone still loves you boris yeltsin
> 
> (also just a general disclaimer because this is canon compliant: i don't think any of this has happened/will happen! it's just a headcanon that's fun to think about sometimes)

There are a lot of people Harry might expect to find on his doorstep at three o’clock in the afternoon these days.

 

It could be the delivery man, come to drop off the pair of boots Harry impulsively ordered online last week. It could be one of his neighbors, dropping by to complain about how a party he’d thrown weeks ago had clogged up the street. It could also be any number of his friends in L.A., who stop by unannounced most days to mooch off Harry’s food or whisk him away to try some new yogurt shop.

 

As a rule, it definitely _cannot_ be Louis Tomlinson, although Harry’s blinked at least three times now, and it’s still Louis standing there, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a duffel bag at his feet.

 

“Um,” Harry says. Suddenly his doormat, a housewarming present from Gemma that says “The Neighbors Have Better Stuff” seems a bit silly, or maybe that’s just because Louis is staring at it with a frown.

 

“D’you mind if I come in?” Louis says, looking over his shoulder like he’s expecting to be trailed. He’s not, of course. Harry’s neighborhood is gated and fully secure, so secure that he wonders how Louis even got in. There’s no car in the driveway and no taxi lingering on the street. Briefly, Harry wonders if Louis had been standing out there for long.

 

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Harry says. He feels flustered in a way that only those who know him very well can make him feel, like he half-expects Louis to take one look around the house and declare Harry a fraud.

 

“Your flat is really nice,” Louis says, though he’s barely looked around at all. “What happened to the old one?”

 

Louis had been to Harry’s other house, months ago with the other boys, when they'd come to go over some paper work and make the final decisions on the album artwork. Louis had taken one look around the place and then made a beeline for the kitchen table, while Niall and Liam wandered around and exclaimed at all of the decor. It had really bothered Harry at the time.

 

“I still have it,” Harry says. “But I stay at this one, mostly. I don’t really need all that space.”

 

He wants to ask how Louis found him, but that seems a bit dramatic, and anyway, Louis could have asked Niall or Liam or Harry’s mother for his address and it wouldn’t have really mattered. The bigger question just seems a bit more daunting, so Harry stays silent.

 

It’s a while before Louis speaks, too, as he’s taken to examining a piece of art Harry’s hung in the foyer. Harry’s pretty sure Louis’s just stalling for time, because he sort of doubts Louis has developed a sudden interest in Basquiat.

 

“I need somewhere to stay,” Louis says finally. He’s still looking at the painting, which is equal parts unsettling and a relief, because while it’s odd at least this way Harry doesn’t have to attempt to hide the shock on his face.

 

“So you came here,” Harry says. He doesn’t mean for it to sound so flat, but he can’t pretend like this isn’t completely out of the blue. He hadn’t even known Louis was in L.A., let alone that he was going to find Harry and want to stay with him.

 

Louis finally looks away from the painting, and when he looks at Harry his eyes are so shockingly blue that Harry knows he must be close to tears. He’s seen Louis cry dozens of times — way back when, _he_ was the one who coined “Louis’s Cry Face” to describe the heartbreaking combination of bright blue eyes and a trembling chin — but never like this. Louis doesn’t look heartbreaking so much as he looks pissed off.

 

“That’s fine, then,” Louis says sharply, already picking up his luggage and turning around. “I mean, I only came by because this was the closest place, and I didn’t think you’d mind. But I’ll go stay with someone else if it’s such an inconvenience.”

 

“Jesus, Lou, you know that’s not what I meant,” Harry says. Louis is heading for the door anyway, so Harry just grabs him by the elbow and manages to work Louis’s duffel bag off of his shoulders and on to his own. “It was just a surprise, that’s all.”

 

“I should have called,” Louis says. It’s the fastest Harry has ever seen him drop something he’s pissed about, and it makes a cold thread of worry unwind in Harry’s chest.

 

“You don’t have to call,” Harry says. “Listen, the spare room’s already set up, so I’ll put your bags in there and then you can rest. Did you just get in?”

 

“I could use some sleep,” Louis admits, completely dodging the question and following Harry up the winding set of stairs to the second floor.

 

The house is fairly small — only two rooms and two baths, all upstairs — but Harry loves it for its quaintness.  He’s glad that he keeps the guest room clean and fully stocked in case of random drop-ins needing sleep, because now that he really looks at Louis, it’s obvious how tired he is. He’s pale and got bags under his bloodshot eyes. He looks skinnier than usual, maybe.

 

The guest room is right next to Harry’s, so Harry briefly points out his room before leading Louis inside and setting his duffel bag on the chair next to the TV. Louis drops his backpack onto the same chair like it weighs about a hundred stones, and then stares at the bed longingly.

 

“It’s all yours,” Harry says, gesturing to the luxurious spread. It’s a simple, plainly-decorated room, but Harry knows first-hand exactly how comfortable the mattress is. He crosses the room to close the curtains that overlook the water while Louis sits on the bed and tugs off his trainers.

 

“D’you, like...need anything?” Harry asks, a bit awkwardly. He’s not entirely sure what to do with his hands now that the curtains are sorted, so he finds the television remote and leaves it on the nightstand in case Louis wants to watch something.

 

“Just some sleep,” Louis says. He’s stripped down to his pants now, and Harry feels the ghost of what it used to be like, back when they were on tour all the time, hyperaware of his every move around Louis without trying to be. He’s not even sure he _wants_ to look, but he definitely doesn’t want Louis to _think_ he wants to look, but _not_ looking feels so obvious.

 

Harry’s twenty-two now, but Louis has always been able to make him feel extraordinarily young in all the best and worst ways.

 

“Alright, well, just call if you need anything,” Harry says. “I’ll order in some food for when you wake up.”

 

“That’s alright,” Louis says quietly. Harry doesn’t know how he means it, but he can’t stand another moment in the room, suffocated by the dark and the quiet and by Louis’s presence, so he just shuts the door.

 

+

 

Oddly, Harry can’t remember what he was doing before Louis showed up. It’s like there’s a giant blind spot in his memory. He can remember waking up and taking a jog along the beach, and then he remembers taking a shower and making a smoothie. He had an avocado sandwich for lunch and called his mum. After that, it’s all blank. He wanders around his living room, trying to piece it together — the television’s off, and there’s not a book lying around, and he definitely wasn’t writing. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and finally settles down on the couch with a long sigh.

 

When he turns over his phone, which he’d abandoned on the couch, there’s a text from Liam: _Did he get there alright??_

 

Harry’s brow furrows. He sends back, _Yeah. How did you know?_

 

Liam’s not a notoriously fast texter, but only a couple moments later there’s a new message: _He said he didn’t no where to go so I told him to go to urs_

 

It shouldn’t bother Harry that Louis didn’t come here of his own volition, but it does anyway. He tosses his phone into the cushions and rubs a hand down his face. Lou would snap at him for touching his face, claiming it makes his skin oily and prone to breakouts. He’s mostly kicked the habit in recent years, but he can’t help it when he’s stressed, and since the only other option Harry can really think of is to scream into a pillow, he’ll settle with this.

 

It feels like a long time since he’s seen Louis, but actually it’s only been about five months. The band’s last show had been in October and it’s barely March now. They had exchanged exactly three messages in that time, all birthday greetings. Harry had sent Louis a combined birthday and Christmas greeting. Louis had replied, _Thanks mate ! How are ya ?_ and Harry had never responded. He hadn’t been expecting a birthday text from Louis at all, but Louis had surprised him, sending one at almost exactly midnight L.A.-time. Harry wonders, now, if Louis has been in California all that time.

 

It seems unlikely; Louis had never really taken to L.A. the way Harry had. Louis likes London, and being around his family and his schoolmates and people he’s known forever. Harry likes the relative anonymity of L.A., likes not being the most famous person in any given room.

 

And besides, surely he would have heard if Louis was in L.A. It’s not like he’s really kept up with Louis’s whereabouts, but they have enough mutual friends that Harry’s sure someone would have mentioned it.

 

Harry hadn’t made any plans for the day, but the prospect of sitting at home all day while Louis sleeps only a few metres away seems impossible. He texts Jeff to see if he wants to go for golf and a late lunch, and when Jeff replies that he’ll meet him at the club in an hour, he leaves right away.

 

He leaves a note for Louis in case he wakes up, telling him he should be back before eight and that he’ll pick up food on the way back. After some debating, he leaves the spare key on the counter too, in case Louis needs to go somewhere before Harry returns.

 

His Santa Monica neighborhood is small and private and right on the beach. Most of the houses belong to either retirees or wealthy people who only spend about a week out of every year at their property, which suits Harry just fine. Paparazzi aren’t allowed within several kilometres of the neighborhood, because all of the surrounding area is residential, so Harry doesn’t have to worry. These days, he can get pretty much anywhere he needs to go without being seen.

 

Back in England, Harry loved driving around whenever he was bored or needed to think. He does it a lot less in L.A., mostly because the combination of crowded streets and 24/7 traffic doesn’t do a lot to calm his mind. But he does it now, taking I-1o into L.A. and wandering aimlessly around backstreets to kill time. He could go somewhere, get coffee and sit down for a while, but the thought of potentially having to face anyone seems too stressful. He feels all jittery, like he might announce that Louis showed up at his place to anyone who asked a simple “How are you?”

 

In the end, though, he doesn’t tell anyone about it. He meets up with Jeff and the others and doesn’t say a word — couldn’t really find the words if he tried. A couple of times, he opens his mouth to bring it up, but everything sounds either too offhanded or too melodramatic to put out there.

 

“You okay, man?” Jeff asks as they drive up to the ninth hole. Harry’s been playing a pretty shit game, to be fair, but he suspects the question might have more to do with the fact that he’s been checking his phone every couple of minutes since he got there.

 

“Yeah, all good,” Harry says, putting his phone in his pocket and resolving to keep it there for the rest of the course.

 

They talk about business and their mutual friends and mostly what a shit game Harry’s playing, and after a while Harry stops feeling so wrong-footed and more like himself. After the game, they all head to the club for a quick dinner, and Harry orders a cheeseburger and fries to go, which is a dead tip-off if there ever was one.

 

“Come on, something must be wrong,” Jeff hedges as they walk out to their cars together. “What are you going to do with that hamburger? I don’t think your body’s fully equipped to deal it.”

 

“I’ll see you at the party on Friday, yeah?” Harry says, grinning and saluting while he unlocks his car door, knowing that joking around is the quickest way to get Jeff to drop it.

 

“You better sort out what’s bothering you by then!” Jeff calls, but he’s laughing like he doesn’t actually think it’s a big deal, which. It’s not.

 

It’s hard for Harry to justify not telling anyone about Louis dropping in. Most of his friends in L.A. know enough about his past to deduce that things between he and Louis have become relatively strained, though it’s unlikely any of them ever knew how close they once were. Harry’s certainly never told them.

 

The drive back is a lot shorter than it could be, so that Harry feels like even traffic is fucking with him, purposefully parting for him the only time he wishes it wouldn’t. By the time he arrives back at his house, it’s dark out.

 

He unlocks and shuts the door quietly behind him, which is pointless because he knows what a deep sleeper Louis is when he’s exhausted. He doesn’t bother turning any lights on, but when he walks to the kitchen he discovers he doesn’t have to, because Louis’s sitting up on one of his stools, barefoot and criss-cross. He’s eating a bag of Harry’s mini carrots with one hand, and checking his phone with the other.

 

It feels weirdly familiar and almost nauseatingly intimate. How many times had Harry come home from a night out to find Louis in the kitchen, back then? He wishes he could remember, because he thinks it might help him navigate this situation a little more gracefully.

 

“Brought you some food,” he finally says, after much deliberation. Louis jumps a bit, startled, and looks up while Harry dumps the to-go bag in front of him.

 

“You didn’t have to,” he says. His voice isn’t sleep-hoarse at all, which makes Harry think he’s been up for a while.

 

Harry shouldn’t have to feel guilty about leaving, but he does.

 

There’s a long silence then, neither of them looking at each other or at anything else in particular. Louis opens the box and stares down at the burger like it’s something he doesn’t recognize, and Harry just snaps.

 

“Louis, what are you _doing_ here?” he asks before he can chicken out.

 

What happens next makes Harry wish more than anything he’d actually thought that out, because suddenly Louis is bursting into tears at his kitchen counter, burying his face in his hands and just _sobbing_. Harry’s always thought he’d seen Louis cry before, but now he wonders if Louis was saving it all up for this moment, because it’s nothing like he’s ever seen before.

 

“Shit,” Harry says. Instinctively, he’s at Louis’s side, wrapping him up in a hug made awkward by the bar stool and Louis’s stance. But Louis doesn’t push him away, so Harry just rubs his back and _shh’s_ and says _everything’s gonna be alright Lou it’s okay you’re alright_ even though he has no idea if that’s true.

 

A million things run through Harry’s mind while they stay there. Anything could have happened to Louis in the time they were apart. It’s a thought that used to make Harry feel sick — something happening to Louis, good or bad, and Harry not being the first person to hear about it. It’s a feeling he’d gotten over a long time ago, so there’s really no accounting for how fast it rushes back.

 

“I’ve fucked up,” Louis gasps. “I think I’ve really, really fucked up.”

 

Harry knows it’s probably best not to ask a hysterical person to elaborate, that it’s probably better to wait until they’ve calmed down a bit, but Louis’s words shake him so badly that he can’t help it.

 

“What is it, Louis?” he asks, feeling desperate. Louis just keeps crying, which prompts Harry to say, “Come on, I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t figure out.”

 

It’s been a long time since he’s used “we” to describe anything relating to just himself and Louis. He thinks Louis might notice too, because he finally lifts his head and attempts to stop his gasping cries.

 

“It’s just I — I didn’t think — I was so _stupid_ , I shouldn’t have trusted h-him, I feel like a fucking _idiot_ ,” Louis says sharply. The anger in his voice comforts Harry a bit; he’d rather see Louis pissed off than devastated any day.

 

“Who?” Harry presses. “Who shouldn’t you have trusted?”

 

He figures it must have something to do with money, and Harry is so, bone-achingly, indescribably relieved. They can sort out money issues. Harry can find the best lawyers to help Louis out, if that’s what he needs. Hell, he can just give Louis money until he’s back on his feet.

 

It’s exactly ten seconds later that Harry’s whole world is taken out from under him.

 

“My fucking _boyfriend_ ,” Louis spits, which is a phrase Harry is definitely not prepared to hear. “Or I suppose I can start calling him my ex now.”

 

Harry doesn’t mean to stop hugging Louis to absorb this information, but it’s instinct, the way his arms fall away and he takes a step back. Louis won’t look at him now, seems to have realized what a fucking bomb he dropped so casually, seems to remember he had never told Harry about a _boyfriend_ in the first place.

 

“I’ll make some tea, I think,” Harry says a bit absently. It’s what his mum always used to do in awkward situations, and it’ll give him at least a few minutes to collect his thoughts without just standing there like an idiot.

 

He puts on a kettle — an old-fashioned one that Louis would probably give him shit for if he was in his usual state of mind. Harry’s only got a few choices at this house; he’s almost fully converted to coffee now. Still, he finds a few bags of English Breakfast that he can fix up for Louis.

 

“I know that I should have told you,” Louis says when Harry sets a mug in front of him. Harry’s standing on the other side of the counter from Louis now, his hands braced over the sink.

 

“Yeah,” Harry says.

 

“It’s just,” Louis says. “I didn’t know how.”

 

“How about, back when I was eighteen and pissing myself over telling you that I like boys sometimes, you could have said, ‘Oh, me too,’” Harry suggests. He’s more pissed off than he realised, but he figures he has at least some justification. They were best friends.

 

 “It wasn’t that easy for me, Jesus, Harry, you _know_ that,” Louis says, eyes bright.

 

If there’s one thing Harry knows about Louis, has always known about Louis, it’s that he hates to prove people right. It’s what prompted him to make something of his life in the first place — what got him out of bed to audition for the X-Factor and what motivated him to get serious about the band. There have always been people telling Louis that he isn’t good enough, and there have always been people telling Louis that he’s gay, and Harry sometimes wondered whether that all got muddled together in Louis’s head.

 

“You still could have told me,” Harry says. “When you got a boyfriend, I mean." 

 

“Yes, because you were so receptive to my attempts to reach out,” Louis snaps. He must be talking about last Christmas, that text that went unanswered. It’s just like Louis to spin one ignored text into proof of some long-standing vendetta.

 

Harry doesn’t want to fight, really. He’s exhausted and he feels betrayed and a whole host of other emotions that he’s not entirely sure he’s entitled to feel, but he figures it’s probably easiest to sort out whatever’s got Louis so upset before they go any deeper into their own issues, because once that’s opened up, there’s no telling how it could end.

 

“So your ex,” he says quietly. “What happened there?”

 

Louis takes a deep breath and wraps his hands around his mug of tea even though it’s got to burn a bit. “He’s blackmailing me,” he says simply.

 

“Blackmailing you?” Harry asks. “What dirt has he got on you, then?”

 

“He’s got pictures. Text messages,” Louis says. “He’s threatening to leak everything.”

 

“Why?” Harry asks. But of course he knows why. One Direction might be on an indefinite hiatus, and all the boys might be lying low instead of pursuing anything high-profile, but that doesn’t mean scandalous pictures wouldn’t sell for big money. It’d make the front page everywhere.

 

“Because I broke up with him,” Louis says, smiling wanly. “He thinks I fucked him over. I wouldn’t ever be seen with him out, and now I’ve just left him, so maybe he’s right.”

 

“Louis, Jesus Christ,” Harry says. “You don’t have to defend a guy that’s threatening to leak your nudes.”

 

Louis shrugs like it doesn’t much matter.

 

“Is that why you need to stay here? Because you’ve been staying with him?” Harry asks. When Louis nods, he goes on, “How long?”

 

“A few months,” Louis says. “I don’t know. About three.”

 

“Well, thanks for checking in,” Harry says.

 

“I hardly told anyone I was here,” Louis says defensively. “It wasn’t just you I wasn’t visiting.”

 

It feels that way, but Harry’s not going to go there. He wants to know why Liam knew, Liam who is all the way in fucking England, who has his own shit going on but who Louis still happily confides in. Meanwhile Harry, who is never busy and less than thirty minutes away, didn’t even know he was in the same country for three whole months.

 

“I’m not going to stay here,” Louis says once it’s apparent Harry’s not going to reply. “I’ll be out by tomorrow. I’ve just got to set up a hotel. I just don’t want to leave town before I get this all sorted out.”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry says. “You’ll stay here. I’ll call my lawyer and we’ll figure out what to do about it.”

 

Louis smiles then, soft. He looks very young like this, his fringe loose the way Harry has always liked, his posture relaxed. He’s comfortable and warm, the Louis Harry has never known how to stop loving.

 

“Thanks, H,” he says quietly.

 

Harry wants to say, _I never stopped being your friend even when you stopped being mine_. It’s a line he’s been saving up to use on Louis one day, but it’s not entirely true, so he doesn’t.

 

“So tell me about this guy,” Harry says. “How’d you meet him?”

 

From what Harry gathers of Louis’s short, choppy speech, he met Eric through a mutual producer friend. Eric is a sound tech who works with some people Louis was introduced to by Julian. He’s twenty-six, which seems so old to Harry, until he remembers that Louis is twenty-four and they're not kids anymore.

 

“It just. I mean it just kind of happened,” Louis says. “We’d stay up working on some tracks and we’d be drinking and we’d hook up, it was fun, it was easy. But then it got hard to stop.”

 

Harry definitely doesn’t want to be hearing about the presumably fantastic sex Louis has been having with some random, sex that was so good it apparently prompted him to stay locked away in a flat for three whole months. But he doesn’t want to interrupt Louis, either, not when he finally seems willing to talk.

 

“Suddenly I’m like, living with the guy, and I can barely leave the flat because I don’t want to get papped, and he’s all mad because I won’t go out with him, and he kept pressuring me to record with him, and everything just went to shit,” Louis says.  

 

“Do you really think he’d leak pictures?” Harry asks.

 

“Dunno,” Louis says, tugging at a loose string on his shirt. “I wouldn’t have thought so. But I wouldn’t have thought that he’d kick me out either, so.”

 

“Well you’ve always been a fantastic judge of character,” Harry says, which is a low blow, but Louis just takes it. It’s a shock, to see Louis this beaten down, but then there’s a lot of things that have shocked Harry today.

 

“Look, I’m going to go,” Louis says, hopping off the bar stool and straightening up. “It was a mistake to come here. I shouldn’t have put all this on you.”

 

“Louis,” Harry says.

 

“I can handle this on my own,” Louis says.

 

“Louis,” Harry says again.

 

“You’re not the only one with a lawyer, you know,” Louis continues like he hasn’t heard. He starts to walk out of the kitchen, and for just a moment Harry considers letting him go. But of course he was never going to do that.

 

“Stay here,” he says. “Until we get all this figured out. Just...stay here.”

 

Louis looks at him, jaw flexing, and nods.

 

+

 

Harry can’t sleep, which has less to do with Louis than he’d like to tell himself. The truth is he hasn’t been sleeping well for ages now. He was good at sleeping on the road, could notoriously fall asleep almost anywhere. It’s harder, now. Sleeping in the same bed for months on end should bring him comfort, but mostly it just makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

 

He’d taken the television out of his room a few months ago because he’d read that having one in the bedroom contributed to insomnia. Looking back, the article was bullshit, because he still can’t fucking sleep, but he hasn’t bothered moving the television back anyway.

 

That’s why he trudges down the stairs and into the living room at three a.m., hours after he and Louis had gone up to bed. Most nights he falls asleep on his couch and wakes up tangled in a blanket with the television still softly playing. He doesn’t necessarily want Louis to know that, though, so he sets his phone alarm for eight in the morning, long before Louis should wake up.

 

It’s only when he collapses onto the couch that he realises Louis is there too, and even then it’s only because he practically crushes Louis into the sofa and takes five years off of his own life in the process.

 

Louis yelps dramatically and starts flailing, which is difficult because Harry has just plopped down almost all of his weight on top of him. Trying to retain a sense of dignity and decorum, Harry jumps up and off the sofa like he’s been shocked.

 

“Shit,” Louis mumbles, still coming out of sleep. “Shit, shit, sorry.”

 

“Why’re you sorry?” Harry asks. He shuffles over to the slightly smaller sofa in the corner. The cushions are amazingly soft, but unfortunately not plush enough that he can sink into them and disappear forever. “I’m the one who almost killed you.”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Louis says, gesturing to himself and the couch. “Sorry I turned your living room into a fort.”

 

Harry smiles at that. Louis’s brought out at least four pillows and three blankets and he’s carefully organized them all around himself so that he’s practically cocooned in the sofa. He’s not entirely sure how he missed that while he was diving face-first into it.

 

“I told you to make yourself at home,” Harry says, shrugging.

 

“No you didn’t.” Somehow, even in the very dim light, Harry can see Louis grinning.

 

“Shit,” Harry says. “I’ve lost all my manners.”

 

“It’s okay,” Louis says. “I won’t tell the kind people at _Cheshire Life_ magazine that you’ve lost all your country hospitality in the big city.”

 

“Thanks so much,” Harry says. He shifts around on the small sofa, trying to find a comfortable position, but his legs are too long and a majority of his body is hanging off awkwardly. He knows he should just go back to bed, but he doesn’t want Louis to think he’s run him off.

 

“It’s kind of nice to hear the ocean at night,” Louis says. “Peaceful, like.”

 

“Yeah, until you wake up pissing your pants,” Harry says.

 

A pillow is thrown at him, surprisingly forceful considering Louis’s lazy position on the couch. Harry moans exaggeratedly but tucks the pillow up under his head. It smells like pine, which must be Louis’s own shampoo, because Harry keeps the guest bath stocked with orange-scented products.

 

“Don’t be gross,” Louis says.

 

“Go to sleep,” Harry tosses back.

 

After a few minutes it becomes clear that’s not going to be possible for either of them. Harry is still fidgeting around and trying to sort out his legs, and Louis keeps rearranging his blankets noisily.

 

“Why don’t you just come over here,” Louis says. “If you fall off in the night and break your back, everyone will think I’ve killed you.”

 

It’s a testament to how exhausted Harry is, and how desperate he is for a cuddle, that he hardly has to think twice about it. It’s not like it’s not something they’ve done thousands of times before; it’s tinged with something tense now, but it’s just the two of them. It’s dark. Harry feels like it’ll be okay.

 

“The sofa isn’t that big,” Harry says, but he’s already getting up.

 

“Yes it is,” Louis counters. He’s able to gather and blankets, shift over, and leave a fairly big opening for Harry, who slides into it gracelessly. Louis begins to carefully arrange the blankets over them both before turning to face Harry.

 

It’s the closest they’ve been in a really long time. It hardly feels familiar — Harry is a lot longer than he once was and Louis is skinnier than before — but it’s still comforting.

 

“Hey,” Louis says.

 

“I want you to stay here,” Harry tells him suddenly. “For as long as you’re in L.A. I don’t want you going back to that prick. Is that okay?”

 

Louis stares at Harry for a long time, but ultimately he nods in agreement.

 

Harry presses his legs up against Louis’s and throws an arm over him, a makeshift imitation of a hug that's a lot more intimate than he intended. Louis is warm everywhere and smells so good, so homey, that Harry could probably fall asleep in an instant if he weren’t so terrified he’d do something embarrassing in his sleep.

 

“You knew, didn’t you?” Louis says into the silence. “How I felt, back then.”

 

Harry closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly.

 

He wants to say more, but Louis is pretending to have fallen asleep, and Harry doesn’t want to interrupt the stillness with six years worth of baggage, so he pretends to be asleep, too.

 

+

 

Louis is sitting on the edge of the couch when Harry wakes up, staring down at him without any discernible expression.

 

“G’morning,” Harry mumbles, trying to shield his eyes from the light that’s pouring in from the window. Louis must have opened every window in the place, it’s so bright.

 

“Morning,” Louis says cheerily. “I made coffee.”

 

He gestures to the coffee table, where a cup is still steaming. Harry takes it gratefully, taking a huge sip and not commented on the fact that Louis had added cream and sugar even though Harry takes it black now.

 

“I’d like for you to call that lawyer you mentioned,” Louis says. “I really need to get this taken care of right away.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says. “I can set up a meeting with him this afternoon, if you want.”

 

“I do,” Louis says. He’s smiling and it looks genuine now, not shaky or bitter or hesitant. “I booked a flight out for tomorrow evening, so I’m hoping to tie everything up by then. I’d call my own lawyer, but she’s in London, and I think I’d rather deal with somebody face-to-face to explain everything.”

 

Harry’s stuck on the part about the _tomorrow_.

 

“You’re leaving?” he asks.

 

“Well, yeah,” Louis says, so dubiously he’s got to be piling it on. “I’ve been in L.A. too long, anyway, and you know how I feel about it here.”

 

“But how do you know it’ll all get done by tomorrow?” Harry asks. “I mean, you might have to pay this guy off. He might not sign papers. It could get ugly.”

 

“I’m sure that your lawyers are more than capable,” Louis says.

 

It’s true; Harry doesn’t really anticipate his lawyers needing more than a day or two to sort out the situation. They’ve certainly dealt with more complicated matters quickly enough.

 

Logically, Harry knows that he should be in favor of Louis going back to London. It’s obviously what he wants, and he’s probably missing his family if it’s truly been three whole months since he’s been home. And Harry’s felt nothing but wrong-footed since Louis got here, but. It feels like they have more to sort out, like if Louis leaves now they won’t ever get this shot again, won’t ever be able to make things right between them. It all feels so urgent.

 

“What you said last night,” Harry hedges. “I want to — ”

 

“Harry,” Louis says, leveling him with a look. “The lawyers. My nudes are a ticking time bomb here.”

 

Harry texts his lawyer, John, a quick brief on the situation as well as Louis’s contact number. When he looks up, Louis is watching him closely.

 

“So how incriminating are these nudes?” Harry asks, trying to lighten the mood.

 

“Artful, I’d say,” Louis says.

 

Harry laughs but gets up, setting out to make breakfast. He has a feeling Louis hasn’t had a proper one in a while; Louis could probably survive on cereal alone if nobody fed him.

 

“I want bacon and nothing green,” Louis declares. He’s followed Harry into the kitchen and sets up on the same bar stool he was at last night.

 

“What about an omelet with green peppers?” Harry asks. Like Jay before him, Harry had always at least attempted to sneak something healthy into any meal he prepared for Louis. It wasn’t often successful, but he had to at least try.

 

Louis wrinkles his nose but shrugs. He probably doesn’t actually hate vegetables half as much as he loves making a fuss about them.

 

He ends up making an omelet with bacon, cheese, and peppers for Louis and a helping of sunny-side-up eggs and a green smoothie for himself. Louis pointedly doesn’t say anything about the smoothie, but he does raise his eyebrows, which communicates a lot.

 

This time, Harry sits and eats next to Louis, and they talk a bit. Louis tells Harry about what his sisters are up to and how Ernest has finally learned how to say his name. Harry, in return, tells Louis about how Gemma is seriously dating someone and how his mum and Robin are coming to visit in a few weeks.

 

While they’re finishing up, Harry’s lawyer texts him back, asking Louis to come into the office at noon.

 

“Perfect,” Louis says. “Mind if I borrow a car to drive in?”

 

“I can take you,” Harry offers. “It’s no big deal.”

 

It is a big deal, though. If they were to get spotted together, there would be no stopping the deluge of tweets and general chaos that would come pouring in from all angles. It would probably make the cover of _The Sun_.

 

“That’s alright,” Louis says. “I should probably just deal with this on my own.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Harry agrees, not wanting to push it.

 

He gives Louis the address and sends him off in his Mercedes, with a stern warning that he’ll be meeting John again under very different circumstances if something happens to the car while it’s in his custody.

 

There’s not much to do with Louis gone, especially considering he’s loaned out the only car he keeps at this property. Harry decides to go for a run along the beach, hoping it will at least give him the illusion of clearing his head.

 

It doesn’t. Harry keeps thinking about what Louis said last night — _You knew, didn’t you? How I felt back then_.

 

It’s hard to unravel his own feelings about that time, probably because it’s gotten difficult to distinguish what actually happened from what so many people thought happened. Harry’s always thought he had a pretty good handle on his emotions and his feelings, except for when it comes to Louis.

 

_You knew, didn’t you? How I felt back then._

 

Louis never said outright that he had feelings for Harry, but Harry knew that he did, at least on the most basic level. But Louis also had feelings for Hannah and Eleanor and it never seemed to matter much, what he felt about Harry. And Harry was a fucking kid back then, so insanely far away from being able to fall in love with anybody for real. Louis was always able to give away his love and his lifelong loyalty in a way that Harry couldn’t, and it scared Harry to think that he couldn’t love Louis back in the way that he deserved. Or, even worse, that the love and fascination he felt for Louis might fade away like it did with everyone else.

 

And then when everything got strange, it felt like there was nothing left to parse together their friendship, let alone any kind of romantic relationship. It seemed easier to just give it up all together.

 

Harry’s jogged all the way out to the farthest house on the shore before he realises it; it’s been over an hour and a half and he’s hardly taken a break. He turns back and takes off again. He doesn’t want to stand still for too long because he’s afraid he’ll scream.

 

Louis still isn’t back when he gets home, so he takes a quick shower and whips up a homemade pizza that he’s pretty sure Louis won’t hate. He’s got the TV on, watching a rerun of a home improvement show, when Louis comes back in.

 

Harry rushes to greet him by the door, where he’s toeing out of his shoes and taking off his baseball cap.

 

“How’d it go?” he asks, surprising himself with how anxious he feels.

 

Louis looks up at him. His cheeks are a little flushed from the warm Los Angeles air, and his hair is flattened where his hat was sitting, but he looks relaxed.

 

“All good,” Louis says.

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

“I’m going to copyright my nudes,” Louis says, so matter-of-factly that Harry can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Don’t laugh! It’s what Scarlett Johansson did, you know.”

 

“Well, if Scar Jo did it,” Harry allows.

 

“John advised me to tell Eric that I have a copyright on the pictures, and that if he leaks them I’ll sue,” Louis says. “John thinks that’ll probably scare him off. But if he makes any more noise, once the copyright goes through, we can issue a cease and desist.”

 

“Sounds easy enough,” Harry says.

 

“So I guess I wasn’t too hasty in scheduling my flight,” Louis says. He’s shifting back and forth on his feet, and once Harry takes notice, he realises he is, too.

 

“I made pizza,” Harry announces instead of replying.

 

They take the pie to the living room and watch a couple episodes of _House Hunters_ together on the couch. Louis’s blanket fort is still fully intact, so they both pile under it. Harry feels almost unbearably warm and comfortable.

 

“These people should honestly just get divorced,” he says offhandedly, in the middle of an episode where a couple can't stop bickering about whether they need a two- or three-car garage.

 

Louis’s not really paying attention, though. When Harry looks over, Louis is staring straight ahead at the TV, but his leg is bouncing under the sheet and he looks tense.

 

“Lou?” he asks carefully.

 

“You thought about it, though, right?” Louis says suddenly. He turns to Harry and his eyes are bright and questioning. “I know you didn’t feel the same, but you still thought about it, right?”

 

Harry’s stunned. Never in a million years would he have thought Louis would willingly ask him that, would show any kind of insecurity unless it was forced out of him.

 

“Lou,” Harry says softly. “Of course I did. I mean. I definitely did.”

 

Louis sits up further, nodding. “I was really in love with you, I think,” he says.

 

Harry’s not really sure how to respond in a way that won’t make Louis feel worse, or make it seem like he wasn’t totally on his own in what he was feeling. Without thinking about it, he says, “I loved you too, though.”

 

It's not a lie, but it's also probably not the full truth that Louis deserves.

 

Louis smiles ruefully. “Yeah. But you were in love with everybody, and everybody was in love with you.”

 

“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t really love you,” Harry argues. “Shit, Lou. You always acted like my feelings for people weren’t valid just because I wasn’t ready to settle down with someone. I was eighteen. And I _did_ love you.”

 

“You said earlier, that you were pissing yourself when you told me you liked boys,” Louis says. “But that’s not how it went at all. You told me you liked _a_ boy. You fancied him so much, and then you just, like, fucking _dropped_ him, and — ”

 

“I was a kid!” Harry argues. “That’s fucked, Lou, and you know it.”

 

“I hated thinking that I was so fucking crazy in love with you and you could just drop me,” Louis says. “You fall in love at the drop of a hat and you make people love you back, and then you just leave for the next shiny thing that comes by.”

 

That stings. It’s something Harry’s conscious about, his tendency to stick on someone for months on end only to grow restless and need to find something — or someone — else. He’s aware that he does it, and he’s always been aware of what Louis thinks about it.

 

“I thought we were best friends,” Louis says. “But then I turn around for one second and you’ve got this whole new group of friends and it was like I wasn’t worth your time anymore.”

 

They’re quite a pair, Harry with his tendency to move on quickly and Louis with his penchant for never moving on at all. Harry wants to point out that a lot of Louis’s qualms stem from his insecurity, or maybe his fear of being abandoned, but he knows that would be a low blow. It still sucks to know that that after all these years, Louis thinks Harry doesn’t have any sense of loyalty, because that’s bullshit.

 

“That wasn’t how it was at all,” Harry says. “But I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

 

Louis shrugs. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” he says. “It just sucked because, like. I was in love with you and all.”

 

“If I could have been in love with anyone back then, it would have been you,” Harry says. It’s a piss-poor attempt to make Louis feel better that probably would have been more appropriate three years ago.

 

“I know that, too,” Louis says. “I really tried not to hold any of it against you.”

 

Harry holds out his arm for a hug that Louis cuddles up to easily. He completely enfolds Louis and squeezes tight before letting him go, but Louis doesn’t really back away. They sit there for a really long time, Harry rubbing a senseless pattern into Louis's shoulder and Louis fidgeting like he still has more to say. Harry stays quiet, figuring Louis will get out with it on his own time. They're about fifteen minutes into a house-flipping show when Louis finally turns to him.

 

“Did you ever think about what it would be like to just...fuck it all out?” Louis says. He even tries to waggle his eyebrows, which Harry can respect if only because it’s a clear attempt to make this more casual than it is.

 

“I told you I thought about it,” Harry says easily.

 

“Well,” Louis says. “I’m right here. And who knows when we’ll get this chance again?”

 

It’s truly, hands down, no contest, one-hundred-percent one of the worst ideas that Harry has ever heard. There are so many fucked up feelings between them already, and so many issues left unresolved, that it could only end in disaster and more hurt feelings. All of which doesn’t fully account for why Harry’s dick is fattening up in his pants at just the idea.

 

“I just,” Louis says, sounding a little desperate. “I feel like. I feel like we need to, you know? Just once, just to...see.”

 

“You just said you were in love with me,” Harry says, still trying to resist.

 

“I _was_ in love with you,” Louis corrects, which stings a bit. “I’m twenty-four-years-old, Harry. I’ve grown up a bit. I think I can handle it.”

 

“You haven’t grown up,” Harry says, closing his eyes under the pressure of the situation. “You still won’t eat your vegetables.”

 

Louis winds his arm around under Harry’s blanket, reaching out for his lap and coming into contact with his dick. “Can I?” he breathes. “Tell me if I should stop.”

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Harry chokes out. “God, don’t stop, what the fuck.”

 

Louis trails a hand up and under Harry’s thin T-shirt, letting his hand rest flatly on Harry’s stomach, where the muscles are rippling despite Harry’s attempts to stay calm. Louis moves his hand lower slowly, scratching his nails through Harry’s trimmed pubes firmly. Harry gasps and slams both hands down on the couch, wishing he had something to hold on to and wishing that he wasn’t imagining holding on to Louis’s hair. 

 

When Louis takes Harry’s dick in his hands, freeing it from his briefs, he places a soft kiss just below Harry’s ear. Somehow that feels even more intimate than when he gives a tight squeeze to Harry’s dick and Harry nearly jumps off the sofa entirely.

 

“You get pretty excited over a simple handjob,” Louis comments lightly.

 

“Been a while,” Harry says, though that’s not really true. But he can’t help it that he’s hard up for Louis. It’s been like that for as long as he can remember; it's not like the sexual tension between the two of them has an expiration date.

 

“I don’t want you to come like this, though,” Louis says. “I kind of want you to fuck me.”

 

“Kind of?” Harry says, squeezing his eyes shut again and trying not to gasp when Louis twists his hand just right.

 

It’s funny that they got to a handjob before their first ever real kiss, but it’s not that surprising, considering their history of fucking everything up. Louis does kiss Harry, then, leaning up to capture his lips and nodding. Louis's lips are chapped and really warm, a lot like how Harry always imagined they'd be.

 

“I haven’t got anything out here,” Harry says. “Gotta go up to my room.”

 

Louis is off the couch and up the stairs in a blur; it’s probably the fastest Harry has seen him move in a long time. He follows after him, feeling a bit dazed and having to adjust his pants along the way.

 

When he gets to his room, Louis is predictably already digging through his nightstand, tossing knickknacks aside until he finally unearths a condom and a packet of lube. He throws them on the bed and walks back over to Harry, pulling his head down for another kiss that Harry can’t help but chase. Louis kisses just like he does everything: gentle and teasing and forceful all mixed together.

 

Harry walks Louis backward so he falls gently back on to the bed, and then climbs on top of him. Louis immediately crawls back to sit up against the pillows, pulling his own shirt off and shrugging out of his pants. Harry takes a while longer to undress, trying to watch Louis and slip off his sweats all at once, which results in him almost losing his balance and catching himself on one elbow.

 

“I always thought you’d be graceful in bed,” Louis says, practically vibrating with repressed laughter.

 

“Shut up,” Harry says, and then jokingly pounces on him.

 

It’s a lot, to be on top of Louis and to be kissing Louis and to be running his hands up and down Louis’s smooth, warm sides. It’s not like Harry hadn't known that Louis has an amazing body, but it’s one thing to be aware of it and another thing altogether to be touching him so intimately. 

 

“Any day now,” Louis says after an indeterminable amount of time spent kissing and touching with no endgame in sight. They've been kissing for so long that Harry's lips are sore, and yet he feels like he could go on for hours. He can feel Louis's dick though, firm and hot against his own belly, and that spurs him into action. 

 

“God, you’re bossy,” Harry says.

 

“I can’t help that you haven’t shut me up yet,” Louis says.

 

“It’s physically impossible to shut you up,” Harry says. But he slicks up a couple fingers anyway, because he’s never actually tried to do it this way before.

 

He works one finger into Louis slowly, trying to be gentle while Louis is squirming and gasping and squeezing his own dick. Louis is so hot and smooth inside, and the promise of getting inside there is enough to get Harry’s dick fully interested.

 

“Another,” Louis says. He actually slaps the bed next to him impatiently.

 

“Where’s the fire?” Harry asks, but he’s already adding a second finger next to the first, wanting to gasp at how tight it is but not wanting to get a slap.

 

“Think it’s currently up against my thigh,” Louis says, moving one leg out just slightly to nudge against Harry’s dick.

 

“Shut up,” Harry says. He crooks his fingers slowly, and then a little more forcefully when Louis doesn’t react. By the third time, Louis’s hips are twitching off the bed and he’s burying his face in a pillow and  _whimpering_ , which is. It's — a lot, and it's something Harry used to think about every once in a while. Harry had wondered what it'd be like with most of his friends, at some point or another, but with Louis it had always seemed more dirty to imagine it. Harry thought he'd be loud and bossy and it's nice, to have been right about that.

 

Harry fingers Louis for a while, but it doesn’t actually feel like it lasts that long. Harry’s favorite part of sex is exploring someone’s body and finding what makes them tick, and with Louis, it’s obvious by the way he whimpers and tries to hide it, turning his head into the pillow or covering it with a cough.

 

When it’s time to actually _fuck_ Louis, Harry’s almost afraid he’s going to lose his nerve. It’s a testament to how turned on he is that despite the almost paralyzing nervousness he feels, his dick is still completely hard and getting drippy in anticipation. There must be a noticeable pause between when Harry removes his fingers and slicks up his dick, because Louis looks over his shoulders and frowns.

 

“Are you having second thoughts?” he asks. “Do you wanna stop?”

 

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. He definitely doesn’t want to stop. “I’m just. You know.”

 

Louis nods like he understands. He reaches on hand back and grasps for Harry’s own hand, and Harry wants to cry with how nice that is, that Louis wants to hold Harry’s hand while they fuck.

 

Harry’s honestly pretty sure he blacks out while he’s putting a condom on and positioning his dick, fitting it snugly into the cleft of Louis’s ass while he tries to brace himself. The last thing he needs is to come immediately and make Louis think he’s got no clue what he’s doing. Somewhere between kissing Louis and fingering his ass, Harry had got it into his head that he'd hate for this to be the last time, and it'd be a shame if he blew that.

 

Harry is careful about getting his dick in, obviously; Louis is so tight and small that it seems impossible not to hurt him, but he’s determined not to anyway.

 

“Fucking — so tight,” Harry grits out as he’s getting in. In this position, with Louis on his stomach and Harry behind him, it feels like there’s no part of their bodies that aren’t touching. When Harry finally bottoms out, they both let out nearly identical moans, and Harry has to pause and clench his whole body before he loses it.

 

“Gimme a second,” Louis says. He’s whimpering just a bit, moving his hips ever so slightly like he’s trying to adjust to Harry’s width at every angle. After a few excruciating seconds where Harry is too afraid to even open his eyes for fear of actually coming, Louis mutters, “Okay, okay, move.”

 

Harry does. He holds Louis’s body up with one hand and starts fucking into him shallowly before really getting into it. Once he’s established some kind of rhythm, he holds on to Louis’s flanks and brings his body up and down to meet his own, going faster and faster until they’re both out of breath. It's the hottest thing he's ever seen, the way Louis's body just  _takes_ him, while Louis himself is gasping and trying to find purchase on the bed.

 

“Christ,” Louis cries. “Oh my _god_ , oh fuck — ”

 

“S’that good?” Harry asks. He positions his right hand so it’s holding Louis’s tummy, his fingers brushing his fully-hard dick. “Feel good there?”

 

“Yes, Jesus, shit,” Louis cries. “Can you just — _touch_ — ”

 

Harry wants to make this last, though, so he doesn’t touch Louis’s dick yet besides a few soft teases. He feels like he should be given a medal for stamina even though it’s probably only been about five minutes, because the fact that he hasn’t come yet feels like a miracle. 

 

“You’re just lying there and taking it,” Harry breathes. He lifts Louis’s bottom half up for one particularly hard thrust and Louis swears his eyes roll back in his head. “Not doing anything at all, are you.”

 

If Louis wasn’t being pounded within an inch of his life, he’d surely comment on how Harry sounds like a cheesy porno. But then, Louis’s own hiccupy whimpers aren’t the most dignified sound he’s ever made, either, although Harry doubts he’ll be able to think about anything else while wanking from now on.

 

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis cries.

 

“I know how to take care of you,” Harry says, a bit cocky and out of his mind with it. “Know what you like.”

 

“Shut up,” Louis says. And then he’s saying _shut up shut up shut up_ , which is apparently a sign that he’s about to come, because he starts frantically fisting his own dick and arching back into Harry’s.

 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes. From this angle he can’t actually see Louis come, but he can watch the way his shoulders convulse with it and he can feel Louis’s muscles tighten him, somehow impossibly tighter than before. After that, Harry’s coming before he can really even process it, his mind totally whiting out while he lets out a long groan.

 

It takes them both a long, long time to come down. Harry tries to catch his breath before pulling out, but it’ll probably be hours before his breathing truly stabilizes, and he figures that probably won’t fly with Louis, so he gently removes himself and tugs the condom off.

 

“Go get me water,” Louis says, noticeably panting, which makes Harry smirk into his own pillow. “We didn’t plan well for this at all.”

 

Harry swings himself over the bed, legs first, and takes a deep breath before attempting to stand up. He feels gross and sticky and like he’s just had one of the best orgasms of his life.

 

He goes into his en-suite and wets a flannel that he tosses to Louis on his way to the kitchen. He could use an energy bar and he figures Louis would probably appreciate a glass of ice water instead of tap from the sink. He’s a gentleman, after all.

 

When he comes back up with the water, Louis is lying under his covers, looking at him as he enters. He takes the water gratefully and chugs about half of it before coming up for air.

 

Harry climbs into bed next to him, unsure what’s normal in a situation like this but really craving a cuddle. Louis allows it, anyway, scooting over a bit and opening his arms up for Harry to fit into. Harry doesn’t want to jinx anything by tainting the silence, but he knows he has to speak at some point.

 

“You were right, about how I fell in love with everybody back then,” Harry admits.

 

Louis doesn’t look up, but he does nod into Harry’s shoulder.

 

“But I loved you the whole time too,” Harry says. “And that has to count for something.”

 

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly. He still doesn’t move, but he smooths a hand over Harry’s bare chest and pulls Harry a bit closer into his side. “Yeah, it does.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
